A Holly Jolly Diwali

by Sonya Lalli

  “You don’t think you were meant to come to Diya’s wedding?”

  My mouth twitched. The thought had crossed my mind, but only fleetingly.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Really, no?” Sam persisted. He drew in even closer, and when our forearms touched, my face flushed red. “You don’t think all of that happened so you could end up right here? Standing here with me?”

  At some point, he’d gone from serious to teasing me again. I laughed, taking a giant step away from him. Sam’s physical proximity, the heat of his forearm, the potent scent of his aftershave—it was starting to get overwhelming. The fireworks boomed in my ear, and I pressed my hand to my temple, wondering if I should go find Diya. It was getting late. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since . . . I couldn’t even remember when. And while it felt good to be flirting with a hot bass guitarist when I was on vacation, I knew full well it didn’t mean anything.

  “So, tell me about you,” I said suddenly. Now that he’d listened to my story, it would be impolite not to ask him questions about himself. I figured about five more minutes of this would suffice, and then I could bail and track down Diya.

  “What about me?” He flashed a grin. “You know the basics. I’m Sam from the Band.”

  “So, Sam from the Band”—I crossed my arms, facing him fully—“tell me about your band.”

  “Well, these guys here”—he gestured toward the stage back inside—“we just muck around and play for parties when I’m in town. My band is back in London, where I live right now.”

  Right now. So he was one of those guys. Not only a musician but a wanderlust. I was both jealous and impressed, and even more convinced than before that he was a player.

  “What kind of band is it?” I asked.

  “Have you heard of shoegaze?”

  “Have I heard of the Verve? My Bloody Valentine?” I rolled my eyes. “Should I continue?”

  “Sorry.” He raised his hands in surrender, grinning. “I forgot for a moment I was speaking with an expert.”

  “Right.” I laughed. “Anyway, what’s your band called?”

  “Why do you ask?” Sam asked, bumping my shoulder with his. “Are you planning to stalk us online so you can stare at me again?”

  I opened my mouth to fire back at him but froze up. I was caught. Outed. He’d seen me gawking like a groupie.

  “I was just . . . admiring your musicianship,” I stammered. The spot where his shoulder had touched me was on fire.

  “Rubbish.”

  “I wasn’t! I love music. All the music. Even yours.”

  “That’s too bad, then,” he said. “Because I couldn’t stop staring at you.”

  Heat pooled in my core, drifting south as he held my gaze. His eyes sparkled at me, and I felt like a moth summoned to a flame as instinctively I leaned into him.

  Damn, he was good.

  “You weren’t looking at your mom?” My voice was squeaky and weird, and I cleared my throat and detached myself from his stare.

  “My mother is a beautiful woman”—Sam laughed—“but no, I wasn’t looking at her.”

  He seemed shy suddenly, a rosy blush to his cheeks.

  “You had her on her toes tonight,” he said. “Most people can’t keep up.”

  I smiled, thinking of Aasha Auntie. “Well, your mom is cool.”

  “I know. Never challenge her at beer pong.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “She mentioned she really liked you, you know.” Sam was fidgeting, like he was nervous, but players didn’t get nervous, so that didn’t make any sense. “Like, as a person generally, but also . . .”

  As a potential match for Sam? He didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what he was getting at.

  “Oh, and how does a guy like you react to having his mother pick out his girlfriend?”

  “I’m not sure, honestly,” he said. “She’s never offered to do it before.”

  I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering if he was just trying to flatter me. Surely, that’s all it was. But from the way he spoke about her, I could tell they were close, and I doubted he was the kind of guy who would tell a bold-faced lie about his mother.

  “She was an actor, you know. Did she tell you?”

  My eyes brightened. “She was?”

  “When she was nineteen, she defied her family’s wishes and started acting in Tollywood.” Sam must have noticed my blank expression, because he went on to explain that it was the nickname for the Bengali-language movie industry in the city’s Tollygunge neighborhood.

  “That’s so badass,” I said afterward.

  “You have no idea. Anyway, she had small roles in at least a dozen movies, and then she met my father.”

  I smiled, ready for an epic love story.

  “He’s a film producer here in Mumbai.” Sam shrugged. “In the end, she gave up on her dream to follow him here.”

  “Oh.” That wasn’t nearly as romantic as I’d hoped. Sam had glossed over all the good parts. “Well, couldn’t she act here in Bollywood?”

  “Sure. She speaks Hindi perfectly, but I suppose she preferred to stay home with us.” Sam went on to tell me about his sister, Leena, who worked in LA, and his brother, Prem, who lived here in Mumbai, both of whom were much older and had high-powered jobs, spouses, and families.

  “Has your mom thought about going back to work?” I asked, still fascinated by Aasha Auntie’s other life. “Now that you guys are grown up.”

  He shook his head. “You have no idea how many times my sister and I have tried to convince her. She could play someone’s mum or auntie.”

  “Sam, she could be the leading role!” When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “Anyway, I’d love to watch her movies sometime.”

  “She still had her maiden name back then. Google ‘Aasha Bhaduri’ and you’ll find her.”

  “And your dad’s movies?”

  “Dad’s movies,” Sam said quickly, “you don’t need to watch. He’s not in them, after all.”

  “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Working.”

  “On location?” I asked.

  “No, at home in his office.” Sam scratched his jaw. “Niki, would you like to go upstairs?”

  He switched topics so suddenly it took me a moment to register what he was asking. I laughed, throwing him the side-eye.

  “No. Not like that.” He grinned. “I’d forgotten you don’t know this hotel. There’s a roof upstairs. With a pool.”

  “A pool,” I repeated.

  “Indeed.”

  “Perfect,” I said, gesturing at my sari. “I’m already in my swimsuit.”

  Five minutes had come and gone. I had reciprocated polite conversation and showed equal interest in Sam’s life, and now I was free to go grab Diya and get out of here.

  I knew I shouldn’t let myself be flattered by his charms. The smart thing—the right thing to do—would be to detach myself from this moment, appreciate it for what it was, and walk away.

  But I didn’t want to. My body ached just being near him, and I gripped the guardrail hard, as if latching on to it would keep me from following him upstairs.

  His eyes scalded me as they landed on my lips, but the look was different this time. If I had smeared my lipstick earlier, he didn’t care. That’s not why he was looking.

  “Will you come?” he whispered.

  I thought about all the times I’d said no instead of yes, all the moments I’d never let happen. I thought about all the fun Jasmine said I’d never had.

  I thought—

  You know what? I was thinking too much. I was about to let this moment slip by, too. And so when Sam from the Band offered me his hand, I switched off my brain and I took it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sam and I slipped away from the party
, and I followed him to a bank of elevators at the opposite end of the hotel. When we got out on the top floor, he pressed his forefinger to his lips and beckoned me to follow. I hadn’t realized we needed to sneak onto the roof, which was only meant for paying guests, and a shot of adrenaline coursed through me as we tiptoed around a group of security guards playing cards and up a few flights of stairs to the roof.

  We were the only ones up here, pool hours long over, and at the top of the building, we had a near panoramic view of the city. There were fireworks going off in every direction, and down below, the city was humming, music and laughter and celebration all playing in vivid harmony. My cheeks hurt from smiling as Sam and I walked a lap around the roof, taking everything in, and every so often, I felt the weight of his eyes on me. Weird, I also thought I could hear Rihanna’s “We Found Love” pulsing somewhere in the background.

  “Happy Diwali,” I whispered, after we’d gone completely around.

  “Happy Diwali.”

  We stopped walking and he turned to face me. His chin was in my eye line, but I couldn’t look up; I was afraid of what would happen.

  Shine a light through an open door . . .

  “So, why do we really celebrate Diwali, anyway?” I blurted, trying to drown out the song. I walked toward the pool, hiking up my sari. I sat down on the edge and dangled my feet in the warm water. Sam joined me a beat later.

  “Do you know I’ve asked four different people about the holiday, and each one gave me a different answer?”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “Well, what’s your answer?”

  “The explanation is really quite simple,” he replied. “It’s a Hindu Halloween.”

  My mouth dropped open, and then I smacked him on the shoulder. “O-M-F-G, Sam!”

  “Ow!” He laughed, rubbing where I’d hit him. “I’m taking the piss. And I’m quoting The Office. The American version. Did you watch the Diwali episode?”

  “Oh . . .” I nodded vaguely in recognition, smiling despite myself at the memory of Steve Carell’s obtuse (and rather racist) one-liner about the holiday.

  “Yeah. Wow.” I shook my head. “Man, why haven’t any of my favorite shows aged well?”

  Sam shrugged, swinging his feet in the warm water. A beat later, his right foot rested against my calf.

  “The explanation really is simple,” he continued, and I tried not to think about the fact we were touching. “Everyone may have different rituals and traditions, many of them forgotten, but Diwali is essentially about celebrating the victory of good, or light, over evil.”

  “Really. It’s that simple?” I gestured to the city around us. “Good has triumphed? When there’s so much pain and suffering and poverty in this world? Good has already won?”

  The comment had just slipped out, and I didn’t know how someone like Sam—who grew up in India relatively privileged—would respond. I didn’t share deep thoughts with many people—I was usually awkward about it and worried that our politics wouldn’t align—but talking with Sam, who was sincere and earnest but lighthearted, too, it felt natural. It felt like I was talking to someone I’d known my whole life who, despite our varied experiences and backgrounds, understood the world on the very same level.

  I wasn’t sure how long we sat like that, but afterward, I felt both drained and completely filled up, like I’d just woken up from the deepest of sleeps. Without thinking, I moved my hand onto his knee, and he grabbed it. Our fingers interlocked, and I reveled in the touch. The heat.

  The familiarity.

  “Should we go back down?” I asked after a while, wondering if Diya would be looking for me.

  “If you want to.” He paused. “This party always goes quite late. And after the dancing comes the gambling.”

  I nodded. At Diwali parties back home, the uncles in particular took to card games as soon as dinner was over, especially thine pathi, which I’d never been able to master.

  Sam withdrew his hand, and a beat later, a shiver shot down my spine when I felt it on my cheek. I turned to face him. His mouth was parted, but I could barely hear his breathing over my own. His fingers traced the outline of my jaw, and as they fell to my chin, ever so lightly he tugged. Instinctively, I leaned toward him, his thumb curling gently around my bottom lip.

  My mind was blank, my body on fire.

  “Wow,” I said, trying not to pant. “You’re good.”

  “Good at?”

  I hesitated. “Just good . . .”

  “I’m not following.”

  I cleared my throat and forced myself to withdraw from him. To rid myself of his . . . spell. My whole body felt weak and tingly, and I pulled my feet out of the water.

  “Niki . . .”

  I stood up, fixing my sari. He was just a good actor. He knew how to weave this tangly, magical web, and catch girls like me in a moment of weakness.

  “Niki.”

  Sam was still sitting, his feet dangling in the pool, his arms bent backward as he stared up at me.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you running away?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed hard. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Our eyes locked, and he reached out his hand and grabbed my palm.

  “Don’t.”

  I tried to wriggle free, but Sam held tight. I laughed. “Sam, you’re going to make me fall in.”

  “Should I let that happen?”

  My face flushed. He was smiling with his eyes, that beautiful, frustratingly kissable mouth. A mouth I needed to get very far away from.

  “I dare you,” I said sarcastically, and in response, Sam tightened his grip on me. I was facing away from the pool and squinting at him ever so slightly, I leaned backward.

  He was holding on to me tight, and after a moment, I dipped farther backward. Our eyes were locked in a gaze, and Sam lowered me down one more inch, and another inch after that. I was at a dangerously acute angle with the water’s edge, and if Sam let go, it was utter certainty that I’d fall in. But he knew I would pull him in with me if we fell, and we stayed like that for a moment longer, locked together, hovering at the precipice of something wide and very deep.

  “If this was a Bollywood movie,” I said, “you’d let me fall in.”

  “What about Tollywood?”

  “Same thing.”

  Sam loosened his grip on me by a fraction. “And then?”

  “And then I’d dance around for you in my wet sari.”

  “Of course. I should have known.” He lowered me down another inch. “It would be raining, too.”

  “And we’d throw flowers at each other.”

  “Sounds romantic as hell.”

  He lowered me down even farther, so far that I had to clench my abs to keep myself from falling in.

  I licked my lips, challenging him. “You’re playing with fire.”

  Sam grinned. “You mean water.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean fire.”

  I had goose bumps all over. Our sexy banter wasn’t just happening in my head but IRL. I knew the tail of my sari had fallen into the pool, but I didn’t care, and I didn’t know what would happen if suddenly Sam yanked me and I was in his arms, near those lips . . .

  “Oy!” someone hollered. “What are you doing?”

  Startled, we both turned to look, and just as we caught sight of a security guard and I went into panic mode, Sam’s grip . . . slipped.

  And I fell. Just me. In my mother’s beautiful canary yellow sari, tumbling ass first into the pool.

  CHAPTER 11

  So. The rest of the night was awkward. The security guard reamed us out in a mixture of Hindi and English for about ten minutes, although he did stop to laugh at me as Sam helped me out of the pool and I did my best to wring out my sari.

  Ha. So funny.

  Eventually,
the security guard let us go, and Sam led me to the back exit, where there were fewer witnesses. My phone, my purse, everything was in Diya’s glovebox, so he texted her on my behalf and told her he was taking me home.

  In the car, Sam kept apologizing over and over for letting go of my hand, but I just laughed it off and kept changing the subject to anything humdrum I could think of, utterly embarrassed. Not for being a sopping wet mess during a fancy party. But for letting myself get close to him, for nearly . . . I shook my head. I wasn’t going to go there again.

  Outside Diya’s apartment building, we said our goodbyes without much fanfare, and once upstairs, I tiptoed past Auntie and Uncle Jo’s bedroom door, behind which they were snoring soundly, and into the guest room.

  I let out a huge sigh. It felt like I hadn’t breathed any oxygen for hours, and I was ready to put the evening behind me and fall straight into bed. But it took me hours to fall asleep, and even though I kept telling myself not to, I kept reliving the whole night over and over. How talented Sam was with his bass guitar and how his gaze seemed to hit me like a shock wave every time he looked at me. The way I felt just being near him.

  The way I nearly let him kiss me.

  I had done the right thing by putting an end to it. Right? We would have kissed, and yes, it would have been soul crushing and breathtaking, like in a Rihanna music video, but it also would have been a fling. Sam lived in a different country, and even though he was Indian, that didn’t mean he was the kind of guy you could take home to your parents. What kind of Indian parents wanted their daughter to end up with a sexy London rock star?

  I tossed and turned for what felt like forever, but I must have fallen asleep because suddenly I was being shaken awake by Diya. She was in a bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head, and I moved over so she could crawl in next to me.

  “What time is it?” I asked groggily.

  “Noon. No stress. I just woke up also.” She slid into the sheets, tossing my phone and evening bag onto the covers. “Raj texted you.”

  I shrugged, grabbing my phone. Raj had indeed replied to my message overnight, a few texts asking about my trip and then telling me about his week so far. Strangely, it kind of read like a work-related e-mail.